The Woman from the Woods
by unamuerte
Summary: Ichabod arrives in Sleepy Hollow to investigate murder. Instead, he is haunted by the mysterious young woman who lives in the Western Woods. Who is she? A ghost? The Hessian's lover? Lady Van Tassel plots, while Katrina pines for Ichabod. Read and review!
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary: Selima is a young woman brought up in the Western Woods who sees Ichabod Crane from afar and falls in love. But he is attached to Katrina, and when he and Selima do grow close, other forces in Sleepy Hollow will try to keep them apart. **_

_**A/N: Please don't think I own Sleepy Hollow. =p Because I don't. This is my first attempt at a Sleepy Hollow fanfic, so be kind. The first few chapters will be told from Lady Van Tassels P.O.V.**_

_**If someone reviews this, I'll continue writing and introduce Selima. Remember, reviews help a writer improve and grow!**_

**_Chapter One: _****_A Stranger Arrives_**

The stranger's arrival in Sleepy Hollow was not sudden. A town meeting had been held in the Church two weeks earlier, and the vote had been almost unanimous. The folk of Sleepy Hollow were a wary lot, but under the terrible circumstances which faced them, no one was inclined to disagree. _Some_ help was better than no help at all.

And the stranger did come.

When he arrived that chilly Wednesday afternoon, Ichabod Crane came prepared for more than a crime scene investigation. He had lived the greater part of his life surrounded by cold people: cold commissioners, cold lawyers, cold magistrates and cold gaolers. So when Ichabod stepped out of the carriage and had his bags dropped unceremoniously in the mud by the driver, he wasn't surprised by the warm reception.

Windows were shut and doors bolted one after the other as Ichabod walked the length of the street.

The people of Sleepy Hollow needed help, but a stranger would always be a stranger.

* * *

Lady Van Tassel watched the new comer with interest. So they had sent a stranger from New York, a detective, to solve the mysterious beheadings? Ha!

She would like to see him try. It had been a delicious afternoon, in all, watching the dazed young pup tip-toe around Sleepy Hollow's many egos. He had managed to bruise one ego already: that of the arrogant young Brom, by mistakenly kissing her step-daughter Katrina.

It was past afternoon now. The fireplace in the wealthy Van Tassel house glowed splendidly against the blue shades of night outside. The servant girl, Sarah, went to the windows and drew the heavy curtains, shuddering. One look from the Lady of the house sent her retreating into the shadows of the house.

And now the stranger was among them.

The Lady of the house was watching him attempt to eat dinner with the Van Tassels. To be truthful, the soup was cold – she would have to speak to Sarah.

But that was not the reason Constable Crane was supping his meal with such distaste, No, it had more to do with the fact that her husband, Baltus, was trying not to talk about the murders, which meant he _was _talking about the murders.

It also had something to do with the fact that Ichabod was quite (unwittingly) smitten with Katrina, and was trying his best to pretend that he wasn't.

Katrina too, was trying _her_ best to pretend the handsome new stranger didn't have any affect on her, which of course, meant a lot of stuttering and starting and awkward silences all round.

Which meant that Lady Van Tassel was left to do most of the talking.

'Constable Crane,' Lady Tassel began, surveying him with her ashen-blue gaze. 'Is the soup not to your liking?' It was a wolfish, knowing gaze, and although the woman smiled, there was something in her manner that discomforted him.

'It is perfect Madam,' Ichabod replied, coughing slightly to cover being caught off his guard. He had been glancing at Katrina out of the corner of his eye, a small, slight glance to be sure, but nevertheless Lady Tassel had spotted him.

'Forgive me my silence,' he offered by way of apology, 'the journey has tired me. The soup is quite good. Truly. Compliments to your cook.'

Katrina allowed herself to smile at him. 'Was it very –' she began, addressing Ichabod, but got no further.

'You see Baltus,' Lady Tassel interrupted, turning to her husband and placing the blue-and-white napkin on the table. 'We have tired the poor gentleman out with all our questions.' She stood, brushing the creases from the thick, silken sheathes of her dress. 'But sir, you shall have your rest.'

This was her signal for husband and stepdaughter to follow.

'We will bid you good night, sir, and hope that you sleep well. Sleepy Hollow welcomes you.' As Baltus struggled out of his seat, Lady Van Tassel curtsied low, and when she raised her head she did so with a seductive, knowing smile.

Katrina also curtsied, but her expression held only innocence, nothing more.

'Goodnight sir, ladies,' said Ichabod, nodding his head at each of them.

That night, Ichabod Crane went to sleep dreaming of wicked women with white blond hair, and girl-childs with eyes the colour of the wood.

* * *

Lady Van Tassel did not have such fantastic dreams. She had not dreamt of any wonder or enchantment since she was a girl of Katrina's age, just emerged from childhood into the mysteries of womanhood. _Mysteries! _Mary was tempted to laugh out loud, were it not for the fact that her sleeping husband had his arm thrown around her waist. She disentangled herself, noiseless, as she was every night.

It was in these private moments at night that she could think of herself as _Mary Archer, _the woman from the woods, instead of the wife of Baltus Van Tassel and step-mother to the simpering girl-child Katrina.

And so Mary slipped from the white bed-sheets and positioned herself before the moon that rose above the window. It glowed like a woman's belly, swollen with child. No one had ever seen sadness in Mary's face. She bared her soul to no one – only the moon had that privilege. She would stand for many hours before a harvest moon, just watching the dirt road that snaked into Sleepy Hollow dance and shine under its light.

There, the woman saw faces and landscapes that had disappeared years ago. It was as if the moon was the key to that other world of the woman's past, and if she waited long enough by the light of the moon, she might be permitted to travel there, for such a short time, back into her past. That was why the daylight was meaningless to Mary, as meaningless as the night was to an artist or shepherd who lives by the light of the sun.

Yes, it could be said that Lady Van Tassel was a truly unique woman. She was not contented by her husband's wealth, fine clothes or attention from the village men.

And she was beautiful, though no longer young, so there was no shortage of men to admire her.

And suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, whether she had opened the window accidentally or it had opened up itself, the window clattered open, and Baltus was sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

'Mary my love,' said Baltus, patting the bed sheets before him. 'Come back to bed.'

And as suddenly as the mask had dropped, it was up again.

Lady Van Tassel smiled demurely (as demurely as possible for her seductive nature) and slipped back into the bed.

But while she received Baltus' caresses, Mary's eyes were hung with longing for the secrets that lay out beyond the window, under the light of the moon.

She was longing for the face that had haunted her dreams for so many years….for so long that Mary was beginning to forget what he had looked like.

The face of her lover. Her first love. Her _only _love. (Baltus didn't count.) The arrival of the stranger, the Constable with the truthful eyes, had reminded her of what she had almost forgotten….

So many years ago......

* * *


	2. Legend of the Crone

_**A/N** Sorry my update took so long. Lots of pressures, blah blah. But it's here. I'm going to keep going regardless of reviews because I have this story in my head and it needs to come out. To avoid confusion, this chapter is a flashback of Mary's life before she became Lady Van Tassel. Thank you to you wonderful reviewers!_

**~ Chapter II: The Legend of the Crone ~**

The wood was cold and dark. The woman was wandering alone. You could not tell her age or features, for white netting covered her face and fell down the length of her dress. If someone had been spying on her just then, they would not have seen much, for the trees in that wood were narrow and enclosing. Only small glimpses of the woman could be gained, the tail-end of her dress, or the back of her covered head. She had her back to Sleepy Hollow. If she had turned about, it would have seemed as if she were a veil floating in the air, instead of a woman.

These woods were not the woods where humans lived – but still, the woman could be found wandering through the very thickness of it.

The people of Sleepy Hollow, being a suspicious lot, would not have bothered to discover that she was a _real, _flesh-and-blood woman. They would have been too busy fleeing for their lives, swearing up and down for years to come that it was the _Crone, _or a ghost woman, that they had seen. Because of their fear, they had long since stopped hunting in that place they called the _Western Woods_ – for nothing there, they swore, was alive. If you went the opposite side of the town to the Eastern Woods, you could travel quite safely through to the next town over, Minstrel Downs. A fair path had been worn between the two towns, and although it as a long ride through, people were not afraid to stop by the woods, and hunt when hunting season came. But they would not touch the Western Woods.

* * *

People told stories of the bloody battles that had taken place during the War – and one of those battles had ended in the woods. They said the ghosts of soldiers slaughtered on the winter snow had left a bitter memory in the trees – and that ever since, the Western Woods had clung to the spirit of those dark and unforgiving times.

"That is why," Lady Van Tassel would tell little Katrina before bed, "that is why nothing fine will grow in those woods, and no light, even in the midst of summer, will shine through those tight, bare branches. Men brave enough to enter the fringes of that wood say not even a bird stirs, for it is a _dead wood, _and all who journey to its centre are taken by whatever lies in the dense hollow where the trees cling tight and close together like bitter guards."

"What is it they hide there?" Katrina sunk down under the bed covers, but a little smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her mother felt encouraged to continue.

"They say," began Lady Van Tassel, who ordinarily was a quiet, unexcited person, and grew her liveliest telling ghost stories, "that a _Crone _lives deep in the heart of that black hollow. Some say she looks exactly like a young bride gone early to her grave, and others say she is hundreds of years old. There is one thing they _do _agree upon: she has the flesh of a demon, and her mouth is full of sharp fangs. The only way, they say, to appease her, is to cut off your index finger, this one here," Lady Van Tassel said, grabbing onto her daughter's tiny finger resting above the covers, "and you must give it to her straight away, for that is the part of human flesh that she likes to eat most."

Lady Van Tassel sat back contentedly on the bed, and blew out the lamp on the window sill. "Now child, enough excitement. Rest that weary head and sleep."

The woman kissed her daughter on the cheek, and shut the door. She produced the key from the pocket in her dress, and turned the key in the door. She had strange fears, perhaps because of how close the town lay near the woods. Sometimes Lady Van Tassel had dreams of lying in bed in the midst of a terrible fever, and vomiting over her clothes. An exceedingly pretty, mysterious woman stood over her pillow, helping her to vomit up whatever sickness had taken hold of her. And by the door, stood little Katrina, petrified.

"Go Katrina," Lady Van Tassel would rasp in her dream, but it never made a difference. Lady Van Tassel would throw up until she fainted away. And little Katrina would stand their by the door frame, watching it all. The strangest part of it was that Lady Van Tassel could watch herself die, as if she were a spirit floating above her body. So perhaps it was for that reason that she kept little Katrina's door bolted at night, for fear of the awful nightmares coming true.

"Is she asleep now my love?" Baltus Van Tassel appeared in the narrow corridor, his arm stretched between the walls like a bridge.

Lady Van Tassel looked down shyly, and nodded. It was always this time of night when she least felt comfortable near her husband. "I think she sleeps."

Suddenly the sound of footsteps could be heard running across the floor. The door behind them rattled ferociously. "Father! I'm scared! The crone is after me!"

Baltus raised an eyebrow. "She certainly sleeps. What nonsense do you tell her before bed?"

The crying went on for another two hours before peace was restored in the Van Tassel household, but for Lady Van Tassel, the ghost woman would always be real.

* * *

It was the very after Lady Van Tassel's ghost stories that the ghost woman showed up in the Western Woods. Only she was not a ghost.

Her name was Mary Archer, and in two weeks hence she would turn twenty-one. She did not look old, but Mary felt old. She felt as old as the old crone, for she had heard the stories about she and her sister. The reason the very rumours existed were because some brave souls, or very stupid souls, Mary liked to think, had ventured in the woods. They did so because there were some among the villagers, or travellers from Minstrel Downs, who still clung to the Old Ways. They were few, perhaps only one or two a year, but that was plenty enough for Mary. They would come seeking magic advice, potions for healing sickness, fate readings. Simple things.

Then they would be on their way, and spread the myth of the old crone or dead bride – whatever they believed existed beneath their veils. For the strange, funny truth was that no one knew there was not _one _crone, but _two. _Her sister and she shared their hollowed out shelter in the woods. Whenever the sisters ventured into the woods themselves, they wore their veils. And never together. Always alone. For those travellers who saw the old crone wandering by herself would be afraid, and that way, the women could live undisturbed.

The veil was essential. Mary hated it, hated it more than the trees and the wood and the shrinking light itself, but her sister insisted upon it. "If ever either of our faces were to be seen," warned her sister, "we would be recognised for what we were, and cast even further out of society's way."

And so it was, Mary thought bitterly. I am to remain alone. I will become a bitter old crone, just as the stories say I am.

* * *


End file.
